Because we are soldiers, and there is work to be done
by beesandbrews
Summary: A missing scene from 'The Final Problem'. Just because the mystery has been solved doesn't mean the Sherlock and John can stand down.


The abandoned well is located in a forgotten part of the Holmes estate, so desolate and overgrown that even with the map references and landmarks Eurus has so helpfully provided Sherlock, rescuers walk past it twice before they finally end their search. After blinding John with their torches, they toss him a lifeline and tell him to hang on, because more help is on the way.

A few minutes later, Sherlock arrives with the key to the shackles that bind John's ankles to a ring in the side of the shaft, but they won't let him descend and open the lock. He is forced to stew impatiently while a verbal battle breaks out between the head of the SOCO team and her counterpart in Emergency Services. SOCO fears the rescue workers will destroy the scene of crime, not that Victor's murder will be at the top of any CPS solicitor's priority list. More likely, after Victor's parents are informed that their son is no longer missing, the case will be quietly closed with a discreet word from Mycroft or one of his creatures, as once again Eurus's presence is erased and the death explained away as a tragic accident.

John is conscious of movement above him as he fashions the rope into a crude harness and lets it take his weight. It is a relief to rest a bit, although he is far from out of danger. At least the water has stopped pouring in from above. He supposes he has Eurus to thank for his head still being above the waterline, but he doesn't feel very charitable, so he saves his gratitude for Sherlock instead as he listens to the strident voices and hopes they won't have two sets of remains to retrieve as a result of interdepartmental bickering. He's very tired, and if he fades out, even with the rope sling supporting him, the threat of drowning is still a real one.

Sherlock ends the argument. "The living have priority over the dead." He begins to override both senior officers, ordering a ladder be put over the side so that he can climb down the rough-hewn stone surface of the shaft.

The EMS in charge puts his foot down, albeit gently. He is both grateful for Sherlock's intervention and understanding of his desire of John's speedy removal. He whistles, and an officer wearing diving kit advances. "It's better if we do this," the EMS lead says. Reluctantly, Sherlock hands over the key and then the frogman begins his climb downward. He has a second air bottle and mask for John slung over one shoulder.

Unlocking the shackles should be the work of a moment, but the officer is cautious, checking for potential tripwires or other traps before he commits himself. It seems that whispers of Eurus's murderous proclivities have made the rounds, and no one wants to inadvertently add to her butcher's bill.

As the frogman does his reccy, John takes hit after hit of oxygen from the mask that has been pressed over his face. It gives him a much needed boost, and more importantly something to focus on other than the grim thought that Eurus might have one final trick up her sleeve that she is waiting to spring when they least expect it.

After what seems to be an age, John is freed, and the diver breaks the surface to give his all clear. He helps John to the ladder and onto the first rung, occasionally offering support when John's endurance falters. When he finally reaches the top and peers over the edge, Sherlock is waiting. He has a blanket clutched between his fingers, and he is kneading the fabric anxiously. Their eyes meet and Sherlock's expression is that of a man who has feared the worse and has found that he has been spared. He shifts the blanket so that he can offer John his forearm to grasp as he hauls himself out of the well.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock's gaze travels from the top of John's head to the tips of his sodden shoes, searching for signs of serious injury. Finding none, he smiles when he meets John's gaze. There are tears welling in his eyes. Self-consciously he brushes them away. John shivers and Sherlock remembers the blanket he had been nervously clutching. He places it carefully around John's shoulders, smoothing it into place.

John clears his throat. Despite being surrounded by water and nearly drowning, it is dry and it hurts from repeatedly calling for help. The harsh sound breaks the moment and simultaneously they remember that they are not alone. Sherlock awkwardly drops his hands and takes a step backwards. "Still soldiers?"

John looks around the controlled chaos of people going about their various tasks, and at the bright lights that seem to come from all directions. He hears the sounds of car engines and the whirling noise of helicopter blades, announcing the arrival of only God knows who else. He thinks about how much he would really like to be practically anywhere else other than this forsaken place from Sherlock's past, and how what has happened will provide fodder for many therapy session yet to come. But there is still unfinished business, some of which must be completed before the night comes to an end. He nods. "Yeah. For a little while longer."

Sherlock's sigh acknowledges this isn't one of those times they can swan off dramatically to leave the constabulary to clean up the loose ends. He smiles, and it is a little lopsided. "Pity. I'd like to go back to being a pirate."

For a few seconds, John returns the smile, and then it drops away as he realises the double meaning behind Sherlock's words. The high point of their day had been living out Sherlock's childhood fantasy and commandeering the fishing boat. They had an adventure, and despite everything that happened both before and afterwards, it had been fun. But Sherlock was also referring to his loss of innocence. His childhood memories of playing Yellow Beard as his trusty canine companion Red Beard loped alongside have been destroyed. That he had reshaped the death of Victor Trevor into something more palatable will likely cause Sherlock to cast doubts on the infallibility of his memory. As to what it will do to the relationship with his family …

"You need to speak to your parents," John says urgently. "About Eurus."

"You mean before Mycroft can get to them?" Sherlock completes John's thought. He nods his head. "We have a long night's work ahead of us, then. That isn't a conversation I wish to have over the telephone."

There is a paramedic standing by, waiting to assess John's injuries and provide any necessary treatment. Reluctantly, Sherlock nudges John towards her. "Let them look after you. I'll make the necessary arrangements and catch you up."

They exchange another look, drawing strength from one another to see the rest of the night through. Without thinking, John blurts out, "This wasn't your fault. Not what happened tonight, and definitely not what happened when you and Eurus were children."

It's the truth. As gifted as Sherlock is now, what Eurus's disordered mind had conceived was beyond even his nearly prescient abilities to predict. And as for what had happened to Victor Trevor, there was some comfort in remembering that even the elder generation of Holmes prodigies hadn't successfully deciphered the clues Eurus had provided them.

The pained expression marring Sherlock's face says that this isn't a truth he is willing to accept. In time, perhaps, he will come to terms with it, but events are still too fresh, and the need to hurl recriminations at himself too great. John fears for him. These are the sort of nightmares from which Danger Nights are made.

The paramedic clears her throat.

In the distance, a helicopter touches down.

Sherlock blanks the pained expression and strides away, stony-faced.

A police constable pulls the starter rope on the engine of a pump and begins the process of draining the well so that Victor Trevor's bones can be photographed in situ before they are taken to Scotland Yard's forensic laboratory for positive identification.

John sighs and lets himself be escorted to a panda car for transport to the staging area where an ambulance awaits. His ankle throbs. The lump on the back of his head hurts. Now that the excitement is at an end he becomes aware that he aches all over from an accumulation of small injuries acquired since the patience grenade had forced him to leap out a window.

As much as he would like to allow the ambulance to convey him to the local hospital for a night of enforced rest, he knows he will accept the minimum level of treatment and then carry on, because he is a soldier, and there is still work to be done.

end


End file.
